said when life excited them. His mind was perhaps a little like
Shakespeare's. We do not know what Shakespeare thought: I do not
know what Synge thought. I don't believe anybody knew, or thinks
he knows.

"There was something very nice about Synge."

The friend who said this to me, added that "though the plays are
cynical, he was not cynical in himself." I do not feel that the
plays are cynical. They seem heartless at first sight. The
abundant malicious zest in them gives them an air of cruelty. But
in the plays, Synge did with his personality as he did in daily
life. He buried his meaning deep. He covered his tragedy with
mockeries.

More than a year ago a friend asked me what sort of man Synge was.
I answered, "a perfect companion." The other day I saw that
another friend, who knew him better than I, had described him as
"the best companion." After that first day, when I called upon him
at his room, we met frequently. We walked long miles together,
generally from Bloomsbury to the river, along the river to
Vauxhall, and back by Westminster to Soho. We sometimes dined
together at a little French restaurant, called the Restaurant des
Gourmets. The house still stands; but it has now grown to five
times the size. The place where Synge and I used to sit has now
been improved away. We spent happy hours there, talking, rolling
cigarettes, and watching the life. "Those were great days," he
used to say. He was the best companion for that kind of day.

Our talk was always about life. When we talked about writers